A storm passed through our little corner of Columbus this afternoon and was kind enough to knock out the power to our office. All I have to ask is why didn’t it happen three hours earlier? As we sat in the dark and listened to the server backup battery beep, the question was raised if we should leave and get a drink. The answer was of course yes, but as the resident lush, I needed to wait for someone else to commit. It was 4:30 and everyone was hemmin’ and hawin’ about going home. Fortunately, vice-lush stepped up to the plate and we went to Doubles. Three beers and I went home. I knew that if I had four that I would have five which would give me the courage to call home and ask if it was ok to stay out for a little longer knowing full well that it was bath night and that I am going out tomorrow AND Saturday and so I left.
What do we do if we show up in the morning and the power is still off? Answer: Bloody Marys.
You look like someone famous
Allen and I went to LA. (There’s almost a palindrome in there somewhere.) We were there for work, but we were also there to drink. One place to drink is Trader Vic’s. It is located in the Beverly Hills Hilton. It’s a restaurant too, but we were not there to eat.
It was a Thursday and Thursdays are busy at Trader Vic’s. The lounge was full of people and every bar stool was occupied by a hottie or someone trying to pick up a hottie. We set up shop at a very small table that was created from a slice of log which had been drowned in resin.
Allen is very good at ordering drinks. I always fall back on the Captain and diet (then later I just fall over.) Allen is a fan of greyhounds and martinis. He’s the type of guy that puts salt in his beer. At trader Vic’s, there is a playground of drinks to choose from. He’s not one to mess with a Tiki Puka Puka, but he will drink Suffering Bastards until I start to look good. We racked up a $200 bar tab by the end of the night.
Our view over the shellacked table encompassed the corner of the bar and a few tables to our right. Right smack dab in front of us on a barstool was a chick with a lot of back showing. She was either wearing a thong that was riding way up her ass or her bra strap was slipping down. We realized what was happening when she went to adjust her pants. Sensing the 30 or so guys in the place burning a hole in her backside, the chick would blindly reach back to pull her pants up to hide he thong. What she was doing was the exact opposite by pulling her thong up even higher. This went on for at least fifteen minutes until she got up to go pee-pee. (Or to go shit out the part of the thong that was wedged up her butt.)
On the short side of the bar, there were two VERY attractive women. Coming from Ohio, I’d say these girls were 9 – 9.5s. I’m sure that in L.A. they were just 7s, but 90% of the guys out there are gay, preparing to be or acting like they are to get work so it doesn’t matter what they think. These two were hot. The 10% of guys in L.A. that weren’t gay showed up at Trader Vic’s that night to hit on these chicks. The girls were knocking them down left and right. We thought we were cool because we didn’t even attempt to get shot down. Out of the blue, the hotter of the two chicks stepped away from the bar and sat down next to Allen and me. She said hi. We said hi. Allen chatted her up in a very innocent way and she seemed to appreciate sentences that didn’t end with question marks.
After a bit, her friend came over from the bar and joined us. (I use “joined us” very loosely. She sat down at the next seat 10ft from me.) At this point, the first hottie looked at me and said, “You look like someone famous.” Get out of here. I do? Who? “I’m not going to tell you.” Come on. “I’ll tell your friend.”
At this, she leaned over and whispered into Allen ear. I can only imagine what her alcohol soaked breath smelled like. I like to imagine her lip glossed lips close up, breathing the name of the famous person that might get me in the sack with this chick. Allen listened and then looked at me with a, “Yeah. He does,” kind of look.
Allen wouldn’t give up this golden ticket of knowledge. If she thought I looked like some hot famous dude, I might have an in. I pressed him, he denied me. She wouldn’t tell me either. I had to know. Finally Allen leaned over and said…
Andy Richter
Fucking great.
Over to my right, Meredith Baxter sat at a table with five people. No one bothered her for an autograph.
Can you guess which is me and which is Andy?
It was a Thursday and Thursdays are busy at Trader Vic’s. The lounge was full of people and every bar stool was occupied by a hottie or someone trying to pick up a hottie. We set up shop at a very small table that was created from a slice of log which had been drowned in resin.
Allen is very good at ordering drinks. I always fall back on the Captain and diet (then later I just fall over.) Allen is a fan of greyhounds and martinis. He’s the type of guy that puts salt in his beer. At trader Vic’s, there is a playground of drinks to choose from. He’s not one to mess with a Tiki Puka Puka, but he will drink Suffering Bastards until I start to look good. We racked up a $200 bar tab by the end of the night.
Our view over the shellacked table encompassed the corner of the bar and a few tables to our right. Right smack dab in front of us on a barstool was a chick with a lot of back showing. She was either wearing a thong that was riding way up her ass or her bra strap was slipping down. We realized what was happening when she went to adjust her pants. Sensing the 30 or so guys in the place burning a hole in her backside, the chick would blindly reach back to pull her pants up to hide he thong. What she was doing was the exact opposite by pulling her thong up even higher. This went on for at least fifteen minutes until she got up to go pee-pee. (Or to go shit out the part of the thong that was wedged up her butt.)
On the short side of the bar, there were two VERY attractive women. Coming from Ohio, I’d say these girls were 9 – 9.5s. I’m sure that in L.A. they were just 7s, but 90% of the guys out there are gay, preparing to be or acting like they are to get work so it doesn’t matter what they think. These two were hot. The 10% of guys in L.A. that weren’t gay showed up at Trader Vic’s that night to hit on these chicks. The girls were knocking them down left and right. We thought we were cool because we didn’t even attempt to get shot down. Out of the blue, the hotter of the two chicks stepped away from the bar and sat down next to Allen and me. She said hi. We said hi. Allen chatted her up in a very innocent way and she seemed to appreciate sentences that didn’t end with question marks.
After a bit, her friend came over from the bar and joined us. (I use “joined us” very loosely. She sat down at the next seat 10ft from me.) At this point, the first hottie looked at me and said, “You look like someone famous.” Get out of here. I do? Who? “I’m not going to tell you.” Come on. “I’ll tell your friend.”
At this, she leaned over and whispered into Allen ear. I can only imagine what her alcohol soaked breath smelled like. I like to imagine her lip glossed lips close up, breathing the name of the famous person that might get me in the sack with this chick. Allen listened and then looked at me with a, “Yeah. He does,” kind of look.
Allen wouldn’t give up this golden ticket of knowledge. If she thought I looked like some hot famous dude, I might have an in. I pressed him, he denied me. She wouldn’t tell me either. I had to know. Finally Allen leaned over and said…
Andy Richter
Fucking great.
Over to my right, Meredith Baxter sat at a table with five people. No one bothered her for an autograph.
Can you guess which is me and which is Andy?
Pumpkin Guilt
Miss Sally, Greg and I were driving in the car on our way to or from somewhere. Greg said that he wanted to carve a pumpkin. I said that pumpkins only grow when it is cold and it was summer and he’d have to wait.
He accepted that. Then I felt guilty for some reason and I ended up buying round watermelons that we carved.
The best part about it was cutting off the top and digging in with our hands and eating the red gobs of sweet. We got sticky juice everywhere. Luckily mom was asleep.
He accepted that. Then I felt guilty for some reason and I ended up buying round watermelons that we carved.
The best part about it was cutting off the top and digging in with our hands and eating the red gobs of sweet. We got sticky juice everywhere. Luckily mom was asleep.
Sucks To Be You
What do you do when you see someone broken down along the side of the highway? Hood up. Steam pouring out. Talking on the cell phone to the spouse or AAA (or both if your spouse works at AAA.)
I usually think, “It sucks to be you,” as I speed by.
I fear stopping to help unfortunate souls for several reasons. The first being that I am always late and no one would believe that I stopped to help someone. I do have the ability to change a tire in about three minutes, but that’s three minutes on top of the 20 that I am all ready late. Even though I know there is no difference between 20 and 23 minutes late, I don’t want to clutter up my sorry excuse with a plausible one.
Another reason is that people are scared of me. As a white male in my thirties, I fit the perfect stereotype of the guy that drives up, smiles, shoves you in my trunk, draws weird designs all over your body in magic marker and buries you in my mom’s crawlspace. I’d hate to freak anyone out. I’m sure most stranded people would rather wait for a sexy, 20 something in a red Mini Cooper to stop by and help them. You can’t shove a body in the trunk of a Mini Cooper. Unless you cut them up first and no 20 something hottie is going to get blood on her Blue Cult jeans.
If I did stop and help someone, they would probably need to use my cell phone. Just think of the complexity here. Roaming charges. Long distance charges. What if they text their mechanic? Now all of a sudden, my phone number is known by all sorts of freaks. I don’t want Ed from Ed’s Garage calling me. That dude is white and in his thirties. Not to mention what will happen if my wife casually searches my recent calls and finds a number that isn’t one of the ten that I am allowed to call. She wouldn’t believe the “I helped someone” excuse either. I’d get beat with the phone and have to sleep in the garage again.
I would also hate to help someone and spend all that time getting thanked and accepting gifts from the broken-downee. Many people are trained in the art of annoying thankfulness and feel it necessary to give you a gift of thanks. Sadly, most people don’t have gifts in their cars and you end up getting a White Castle box filled with flowering weeds from the side of the road. Just so everyone knows; cash is not insulting.
As I write this I’m realizing that I have the trifecta of car-breaking-downage in effect. My car is paid off. My engine light is on (but may be going off as it has been on for three months and that bulb ain’t getting any younger.) I do not have a spare tire. You can’t ask for a better combination of reasons for my 1995 Honda to give up on life and die on 270 in the morning/afternoon on my way to work. Oh yeah. I need an oil change bad. 10,000 miles bad.
Tomorrow morning/afternoon, as I am pulled off to the side of the road, please stop and help me. But only if you are a 20 something and wearing Blue Cult jeans. Can you drop me off at my mom’s house? I can write you directions on the back of this white castle box with this magic marker. My, what a small trunk you have.
I usually think, “It sucks to be you,” as I speed by.
I fear stopping to help unfortunate souls for several reasons. The first being that I am always late and no one would believe that I stopped to help someone. I do have the ability to change a tire in about three minutes, but that’s three minutes on top of the 20 that I am all ready late. Even though I know there is no difference between 20 and 23 minutes late, I don’t want to clutter up my sorry excuse with a plausible one.
Another reason is that people are scared of me. As a white male in my thirties, I fit the perfect stereotype of the guy that drives up, smiles, shoves you in my trunk, draws weird designs all over your body in magic marker and buries you in my mom’s crawlspace. I’d hate to freak anyone out. I’m sure most stranded people would rather wait for a sexy, 20 something in a red Mini Cooper to stop by and help them. You can’t shove a body in the trunk of a Mini Cooper. Unless you cut them up first and no 20 something hottie is going to get blood on her Blue Cult jeans.
If I did stop and help someone, they would probably need to use my cell phone. Just think of the complexity here. Roaming charges. Long distance charges. What if they text their mechanic? Now all of a sudden, my phone number is known by all sorts of freaks. I don’t want Ed from Ed’s Garage calling me. That dude is white and in his thirties. Not to mention what will happen if my wife casually searches my recent calls and finds a number that isn’t one of the ten that I am allowed to call. She wouldn’t believe the “I helped someone” excuse either. I’d get beat with the phone and have to sleep in the garage again.
I would also hate to help someone and spend all that time getting thanked and accepting gifts from the broken-downee. Many people are trained in the art of annoying thankfulness and feel it necessary to give you a gift of thanks. Sadly, most people don’t have gifts in their cars and you end up getting a White Castle box filled with flowering weeds from the side of the road. Just so everyone knows; cash is not insulting.
As I write this I’m realizing that I have the trifecta of car-breaking-downage in effect. My car is paid off. My engine light is on (but may be going off as it has been on for three months and that bulb ain’t getting any younger.) I do not have a spare tire. You can’t ask for a better combination of reasons for my 1995 Honda to give up on life and die on 270 in the morning/afternoon on my way to work. Oh yeah. I need an oil change bad. 10,000 miles bad.
Tomorrow morning/afternoon, as I am pulled off to the side of the road, please stop and help me. But only if you are a 20 something and wearing Blue Cult jeans. Can you drop me off at my mom’s house? I can write you directions on the back of this white castle box with this magic marker. My, what a small trunk you have.
John's 32nd Birthday Suprise
I was just reminded of John’s 32nd birthday party. Wait. Let me rephrase. John’s 32nd surprise birthday party. No one told me it was a surprise until after I asked John about his party. I was scorned and accused of anti-suprisism. Screw them. No one told me.
The next weekend, something else was planned. This time I wasn’t given any details. Probably a smart move. I was told to go to John’s apartment where a new surprise was going to take place. Miss Sally and I headed over. I decided to wear my orange sweater with a blue stripe. John and his brother Chris were hanging out. We chit chatted for a few minutes, acting casual and waiting for a stripper or a horse or whatever to show up at the door.
There was a ruckus at the back door and in through the kitchen stormed eight chicks dressed in black and wearing masks and bandanas. John was quickly subdued, handcuffed and blindfolded. This was going to be interesting.
Until they did the same to me.
As I was cuffed and blindfolded, I was called a traitor and a sneak. Submerged in total darkness and tightly bound, we were dragged out of the house and put in separate cars.
The rest of the night went like this:
1. The cars would stop (unbeknownst to John and I) at landmark locations around Columbus
2. We would be pulled out
3. Compromising positions were created using John’s and my body
3a. Compromising positions were created using John’s and my and a male stripper’s body
4. There would be several flashes
5. We would be thrown back in the cars
We stopped about five or six times. At the end of the night, we were walked across a busy street, into a crowded bar and unmasked. Many of our friends were there. A cake and gifts for John were spread out along with 30 or so Polaroid photos from the evening.
It was a very memorable night. And I’m sure I was supposed to have learned a lesson from the evening, but I can’t tell you what it was.
Later on I realized that Miss Sally knew what was going to happen that night and she didn’t let on. I’m not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.
……..
Oh yeah. I changed a few facts in this story.
A. It was actually seven girls and one gay guy that kidnapped us
B. I wore a blue sweater with an orange stripe
C. The handcuffs were the really cheap plastic variety and the blindfolds were the type Mrs. Howell would have worn. I had to re-snap my cuffs on every three minutes. We were very willing participants.
See the photos of the night here:John's 32nd Birthday Photos on Flickr
The next weekend, something else was planned. This time I wasn’t given any details. Probably a smart move. I was told to go to John’s apartment where a new surprise was going to take place. Miss Sally and I headed over. I decided to wear my orange sweater with a blue stripe. John and his brother Chris were hanging out. We chit chatted for a few minutes, acting casual and waiting for a stripper or a horse or whatever to show up at the door.
There was a ruckus at the back door and in through the kitchen stormed eight chicks dressed in black and wearing masks and bandanas. John was quickly subdued, handcuffed and blindfolded. This was going to be interesting.
Until they did the same to me.
As I was cuffed and blindfolded, I was called a traitor and a sneak. Submerged in total darkness and tightly bound, we were dragged out of the house and put in separate cars.
The rest of the night went like this:
1. The cars would stop (unbeknownst to John and I) at landmark locations around Columbus
2. We would be pulled out
3. Compromising positions were created using John’s and my body
3a. Compromising positions were created using John’s and my and a male stripper’s body
4. There would be several flashes
5. We would be thrown back in the cars
We stopped about five or six times. At the end of the night, we were walked across a busy street, into a crowded bar and unmasked. Many of our friends were there. A cake and gifts for John were spread out along with 30 or so Polaroid photos from the evening.
It was a very memorable night. And I’m sure I was supposed to have learned a lesson from the evening, but I can’t tell you what it was.
Later on I realized that Miss Sally knew what was going to happen that night and she didn’t let on. I’m not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.
……..
Oh yeah. I changed a few facts in this story.
A. It was actually seven girls and one gay guy that kidnapped us
B. I wore a blue sweater with an orange stripe
C. The handcuffs were the really cheap plastic variety and the blindfolds were the type Mrs. Howell would have worn. I had to re-snap my cuffs on every three minutes. We were very willing participants.
See the photos of the night here:
Note to Self: Idiot
My job is an unhappy place. There is no joy in the work. The only happiness is derived from the interaction with the people in my office. It has its moments, but compared to some of the exciting stuff I’ve done in the past… this job is purgatory.
What really stinks is that I’ve known this for over a year, but every morning I get out of my car and walk into that rotten building. (Morning is being generous. I’ve taken to rolling in at noon some days. At least the job has that going for it.) I know that I’ve known this for a while because I just received an e-mail from myself telling me just that.
Explaining…
There is a website called FutureMe.org. From this site you can write an e-mail to yourself that is delivered at some point in the future specified by you. On the site, you can see what other people have written to themselves. Letters of Happy Birthday or Are You Married Yet are not uncommon. Every so often you get Am I Dead? Last Thursday morning, I was greeted by this e-mail as I strolled into the office (very close to noon.)
From: FutureMe.org [mailto:pastme@futureme.org]
Sent: Thursday, May 18, 2006 5:00 AM
To: Doug
Subject: Do you still work here?
(The following is an e-mail from the past, composed on Sunday, December 18, 2005, and sent via FutureMe.org)
Dear FutureMe,
If you are reading this, it means you still work at (INSERT MY CURRENT JOB HERE) and that you are a TOTAL FUCKING LOSER!
Quit now.
Then kill yourself.
You (me)
Last December, I was applying for a job where I thought I was a shoe-in. In my mind, I shouldn’t have been interviewing for the job, they should have been recruiting me. Little do (did) I know (knowed.) When the phone call came, I thought it was for the last of the interviews with VPs and the P. Instead it was the FU; “We’ve gone with someone else. Thanks!” I about shit my pants. The best part must have been listening to me reply back, “Hey, thanks for letting me interview. I totally understand your decision.” Boo fucking hoo.
So, six months later is now five days ago. I still haven’t quit the job and killing myself just isn’t in the plans (unless it’s through drinking.) So I guess I have two choices… move on or shut up. I guess the third scenario would be that my boss reads this and fires my sorry ass.
It could be worse.
What really stinks is that I’ve known this for over a year, but every morning I get out of my car and walk into that rotten building. (Morning is being generous. I’ve taken to rolling in at noon some days. At least the job has that going for it.) I know that I’ve known this for a while because I just received an e-mail from myself telling me just that.
Explaining…
There is a website called FutureMe.org. From this site you can write an e-mail to yourself that is delivered at some point in the future specified by you. On the site, you can see what other people have written to themselves. Letters of Happy Birthday or Are You Married Yet are not uncommon. Every so often you get Am I Dead? Last Thursday morning, I was greeted by this e-mail as I strolled into the office (very close to noon.)
From: FutureMe.org [mailto:pastme@futureme.org]
Sent: Thursday, May 18, 2006 5:00 AM
To: Doug
Subject: Do you still work here?
(The following is an e-mail from the past, composed on Sunday, December 18, 2005, and sent via FutureMe.org)
Dear FutureMe,
If you are reading this, it means you still work at (INSERT MY CURRENT JOB HERE) and that you are a TOTAL FUCKING LOSER!
Quit now.
Then kill yourself.
You (me)
Last December, I was applying for a job where I thought I was a shoe-in. In my mind, I shouldn’t have been interviewing for the job, they should have been recruiting me. Little do (did) I know (knowed.) When the phone call came, I thought it was for the last of the interviews with VPs and the P. Instead it was the FU; “We’ve gone with someone else. Thanks!” I about shit my pants. The best part must have been listening to me reply back, “Hey, thanks for letting me interview. I totally understand your decision.” Boo fucking hoo.
So, six months later is now five days ago. I still haven’t quit the job and killing myself just isn’t in the plans (unless it’s through drinking.) So I guess I have two choices… move on or shut up. I guess the third scenario would be that my boss reads this and fires my sorry ass.
It could be worse.
1995 Honda Civic
I am waiting for the car repair guy to call. My breaks broke, so I guess they are working perfectly.
They’ve simplified their pricing:
Nothing wrong (which means they didn’t have a chance to look at it.) = $50.00
Something Wrong = 1 credit card
Holy Shit = 2 credit cards plus a free oil change (thanks!)
He called. Holy Shit.
They’ve simplified their pricing:
Nothing wrong (which means they didn’t have a chance to look at it.) = $50.00
Something Wrong = 1 credit card
Holy Shit = 2 credit cards plus a free oil change (thanks!)
He called. Holy Shit.
Kid Rituals
I have a kid. Other people do too. Seems to be a trend.
My ex-co-worker, Steve, has a little girl. As a special gift of love, he would write a small note that would go with her everyday to preschool. The note would say things like “Daddy loves you” or “Have a great day.” Cute. That is until the day they forgot to give her a note and she had a, now predictable, meltdown for several hours.
Solution: They started hoarding old notes and recycling them. They also started giving the teachers at pre-school a stockpile of notes in case they forget again.
My warning to you: Do not interact with your child in any special, out of the ordinary way. Keep it basic. Keep it mundane. Keep your sanity. Currently with our kid, the bedtime ritual includes: read two books, ensure all stuffed animals are in bed, blanket number one, blanket number two, hug, kiss, I kiss you, high five, double high five, thumbs up, secret sign, I have to pee, repeat. If any step is missed, he’ll tack it on the end and then want to do all the others that come after it. If you miss blanket number two and he decides to do an inventory on the stuffed animals, you could be there all night.
I’m sure someday we’ll look back and reflect on how cute it was.
Actually, I’m lying. I’m totally into creating an elaborate combination of moves, signs and dance steps before bed. I’m hoping to get up to 25 steps before my wife figures out what I’m doing. This is the only time I’ll be able to get away with this before my kid figures it out and starts thinking I’m gay.
My ex-co-worker, Steve, has a little girl. As a special gift of love, he would write a small note that would go with her everyday to preschool. The note would say things like “Daddy loves you” or “Have a great day.” Cute. That is until the day they forgot to give her a note and she had a, now predictable, meltdown for several hours.
Solution: They started hoarding old notes and recycling them. They also started giving the teachers at pre-school a stockpile of notes in case they forget again.
My warning to you: Do not interact with your child in any special, out of the ordinary way. Keep it basic. Keep it mundane. Keep your sanity. Currently with our kid, the bedtime ritual includes: read two books, ensure all stuffed animals are in bed, blanket number one, blanket number two, hug, kiss, I kiss you, high five, double high five, thumbs up, secret sign, I have to pee, repeat. If any step is missed, he’ll tack it on the end and then want to do all the others that come after it. If you miss blanket number two and he decides to do an inventory on the stuffed animals, you could be there all night.
I’m sure someday we’ll look back and reflect on how cute it was.
Actually, I’m lying. I’m totally into creating an elaborate combination of moves, signs and dance steps before bed. I’m hoping to get up to 25 steps before my wife figures out what I’m doing. This is the only time I’ll be able to get away with this before my kid figures it out and starts thinking I’m gay.
I Am Almost Old
The best thing about life is that you can always find someone worse off than you to make you feel better about yourself. –Rich Sparhawk
I feel the end coming on. It’s looming. I am about to get old. One kid with another on the way. Buying a second house for the first time. It’s there, right over the edge of the sink, in the mirror where the grey hairs have started to nest.
You can look at your parents and grandparents and see that they are old. They are old because they have given up. You get so much piled on top and you just give in to old age. It’s inevitable. You look at yourself and you can see it roosting. You’d like to avoid it, but you just can’t. Usually you can fight it off by being too busy to notice, but you can’t avoid it forever. Now, there are a very slim few who can fight it off for a little bit. (Robert Redford did for a bit. So did Britney Spears.) Everyone else who tries to stay young just looks creepy. You can date young and you can wear young clothes and dance at the young clubs, but you still hurt in the morning and can’t crap when you want.
I’m still young though. I sneak by through hanging out with younger people. It about time I dump my current friends and pick up new younger ones. They were great five years ago when they were 25, but now they are all getting married with kids… old. I need a new batch of green punks that still have good parties and don’t mind being four hours late to work. I need new irresponsibility.
But that’s not going to happen, because the one thing that takes and knocks your old ass over the old edge is going to pop out any day now.
This thing I keep rambling on about is the “I don’t get it.” As soon as you say or even think it, you are old. It’s either fashion or dance or technology that dumbfounds a forty something right into Depends. So far I have been able to accept baggy pants and bluegrass-acid jazz and tattoos behind the ear and 16 year olds with pacifiers and IM and blogs and lip piercing and Ugg boots and tipped – no- slanted – no- backwards – no – oh shit they’ve gone full circle and now it’s hats on straight. I’ve made it though. But I am waiting for the one trend that makes me shake my head and pull my belt up to my tits.
So screw that. I’m inventing that trend. I am going to be behind the movement that pushes most 30-somethings into old age. The synchronic screams of passing youth will fill the air as the stock in Rascals triples.
The trend is: Knock Yourself Out Dancing. It goes like this: Try to punch yourself into unconsciousness while dancing. Its beauty is its simplicity. It will start quite simply: A random teen punk will be searching the internet for “beer bong” and “Elvis riding a unicorn” and stumble across my blog. As he reads every tenth word, he’ll accidentally read “Ugg boots” and slow down enough to catch the phrase Knock Yourself Out Dancing. Later that weekend at the 16+ dance at the Reef Graveyard, he’ll begin the trend. By the end of the night, the floor will be covered in Red Bull and bruised wannabes. So it begins…
He’ll take the credit, but you will all know the truth behind your own giving in. I’ll sit and smile as web sites bulge at the seams with comments on how that Knock Yourself Out Dancing (or NyO as it will be called) is the dumbest thing in the world and that they just don’t get it. Kids these days.
Ohio has something called the Golden Buckeye Card for seniors. I hope your state has the same.
I feel the end coming on. It’s looming. I am about to get old. One kid with another on the way. Buying a second house for the first time. It’s there, right over the edge of the sink, in the mirror where the grey hairs have started to nest.
You can look at your parents and grandparents and see that they are old. They are old because they have given up. You get so much piled on top and you just give in to old age. It’s inevitable. You look at yourself and you can see it roosting. You’d like to avoid it, but you just can’t. Usually you can fight it off by being too busy to notice, but you can’t avoid it forever. Now, there are a very slim few who can fight it off for a little bit. (Robert Redford did for a bit. So did Britney Spears.) Everyone else who tries to stay young just looks creepy. You can date young and you can wear young clothes and dance at the young clubs, but you still hurt in the morning and can’t crap when you want.
I’m still young though. I sneak by through hanging out with younger people. It about time I dump my current friends and pick up new younger ones. They were great five years ago when they were 25, but now they are all getting married with kids… old. I need a new batch of green punks that still have good parties and don’t mind being four hours late to work. I need new irresponsibility.
But that’s not going to happen, because the one thing that takes and knocks your old ass over the old edge is going to pop out any day now.
This thing I keep rambling on about is the “I don’t get it.” As soon as you say or even think it, you are old. It’s either fashion or dance or technology that dumbfounds a forty something right into Depends. So far I have been able to accept baggy pants and bluegrass-acid jazz and tattoos behind the ear and 16 year olds with pacifiers and IM and blogs and lip piercing and Ugg boots and tipped – no- slanted – no- backwards – no – oh shit they’ve gone full circle and now it’s hats on straight. I’ve made it though. But I am waiting for the one trend that makes me shake my head and pull my belt up to my tits.
So screw that. I’m inventing that trend. I am going to be behind the movement that pushes most 30-somethings into old age. The synchronic screams of passing youth will fill the air as the stock in Rascals triples.
The trend is: Knock Yourself Out Dancing. It goes like this: Try to punch yourself into unconsciousness while dancing. Its beauty is its simplicity. It will start quite simply: A random teen punk will be searching the internet for “beer bong” and “Elvis riding a unicorn” and stumble across my blog. As he reads every tenth word, he’ll accidentally read “Ugg boots” and slow down enough to catch the phrase Knock Yourself Out Dancing. Later that weekend at the 16+ dance at the Reef Graveyard, he’ll begin the trend. By the end of the night, the floor will be covered in Red Bull and bruised wannabes. So it begins…
He’ll take the credit, but you will all know the truth behind your own giving in. I’ll sit and smile as web sites bulge at the seams with comments on how that Knock Yourself Out Dancing (or NyO as it will be called) is the dumbest thing in the world and that they just don’t get it. Kids these days.
Ohio has something called the Golden Buckeye Card for seniors. I hope your state has the same.
Late Night Shopping
I was shopping at Kroger’s around midnight. Late night shopping is the best. No people to slow you up. The night stockers leave zig zag paths through their isles that you can race down, trying not to hit the unshelved product. And if you go with a buzz on, you can buy 10 -15 items that aren’t on the list that sound really delicious at the time. It’s fun to hear Miss Sally ask why we have four 32oz cans of Corn Beef Hash in the cupboard. Though you need to time it right at checkout so you are not stuck behind the embarrassed food stamp people who also shop late at night. “I’m sorry miss, you can’t buy Basic 100s with your WIC coupon.”
I was at the stand up coolers deciding between the Klondike Regular and the Klondike Krunch. (I was off the list.) It was a little hard to see in the cooler as there was a bit of condensation on the inside. I opened the door and was hit with a blast of hot, wet air. Something was amiss. I grabbed the Krunch variety and SMOOOOOSH. The packaging squished in my hand as the melted contents of each individually wrapped bar tried to seep out.
The coolers must have broken. Or there’s a secret switch on the back that reads COLD and HOT and someone was having a bad first day.
There was an employee in the isle that I recognized from my other late night shopping trips. I walked up to him and said, “Hey, the coolers are broken and everything is melted.”
He leaned in towards me and whispered, “I get out of here in 15 minutes. Don’t say anything or I will have to stay and help clear it out.”
“O.K.”
In the checkout line, I got a Kit Kat and ate it as I waited for the food stamp person to write a check without ID.
I was at the stand up coolers deciding between the Klondike Regular and the Klondike Krunch. (I was off the list.) It was a little hard to see in the cooler as there was a bit of condensation on the inside. I opened the door and was hit with a blast of hot, wet air. Something was amiss. I grabbed the Krunch variety and SMOOOOOSH. The packaging squished in my hand as the melted contents of each individually wrapped bar tried to seep out.
The coolers must have broken. Or there’s a secret switch on the back that reads COLD and HOT and someone was having a bad first day.
There was an employee in the isle that I recognized from my other late night shopping trips. I walked up to him and said, “Hey, the coolers are broken and everything is melted.”
He leaned in towards me and whispered, “I get out of here in 15 minutes. Don’t say anything or I will have to stay and help clear it out.”
“O.K.”
In the checkout line, I got a Kit Kat and ate it as I waited for the food stamp person to write a check without ID.
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